by Dale Brown
The president nodded his assent.
“The wreckage of the drone that crashed near the interstate has been taken to Joint Air Base Battle Mountain for forensic examination,” Fuller went on. “With your permission, sir, I’ve ordered the National Transportation Safety Board not to convene an accident panel until the FBI completes its investigation.”
“Approved,” the president said, “but I’d like you to turn over any unclassified findings to the NTSB as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Mr. President. We did have a very interesting development regarding the first drone: an eyewitness who was hunting in the vicinity south of the crash site claims he saw what he described as a contrail.”
“Contrail . . . you mean, a missile trail?” Ann asked.
“The witness couldn’t be sure,” Fuller said. “He said the trail was pretty straight, and motor smoke from a man-portable air-defense missile is usually not. We’re investigating. We should be able to tell once we get a look at the wreckage.”
“Domestic terrorists, armed first with radioactive materials . . . and possibly now with antiaircraft missiles?” Ann breathed. “It’s too scary to think about.”
“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves here,” Phoenix said. “Director Fuller, who authorized the robot action against the extremists?”
“Special Agent Philip Chastain, special agent in charge of terror investigations, out of the San Francisco office.”
“He should have asked for permission to deploy those robots.”
“He made a tactical decision, sir,” Fuller said. “He was given the robots to use as part of this investigation of extremist groups, and he acted when he saw that drone being captured by the extremists. I can’t fault him, sir. I stand behind his decision.”
Phoenix thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “You’re right: we expect these men to make decisions and act. And thank you for sticking with your man.”
“Yes, sir. Chastain is one of our best.”
“So we may never know if it was involved in a midair collision, like the extremists claim?”
“We’ve been in contact with the FAA and they say that there were no other aircraft in the vicinity of the second drone, sir,” Fuller said. “However, that’s inconclusive because of radar limitations—they might not see small or low-flying aircraft—but the claim that there was a midair collision might be untrue. They are extremely rare, even with unmanned aircraft. We won’t know until we examine the wreckage.”
“Which leads us to the big question, sir: what to do about those extremists,” Caffery said. “They’ve dragged all the wreckage of the second drone into their compound; they fired on our helicopter and the CID units with heavy automatic weapons; and they may have used antiaircraft weapons against our surveillance planes.”
“I’ve got two Hostage Rescue Teams standing by to enter that compound and make arrests, with two more on the way to assist,” Fuller said. “We’ve set up long-range ground-based surveillance of the compound, and in a few days we’ll have a clear picture of exactly what we’re up against there.”
“I don’t want anybody entering that compound,” the president said. “Surround it, prevent anyone from entering or leaving unless it’s a humanitarian necessity. Collect intelligence, and start negotiating a surrender of those responsible for shooting at the helicopter. I’m not going to have another Branch Davidian disaster televised for the entire world.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I’ll be waiting to hear more about the results of the investigation into the first drone,” the president said. “Anything else for me?”
Attorney General Caffery looked a little uneasy, but said, “About former president Gardner, sir.”
“I heard him this morning,” Phoenix said, rubbing his eyes wearily. “He’s entitled to his own opinions.”
“But not his own facts, sir,” Caffery said. “What he’s saying is not only untrue, but I’m afraid it could spark more violence if he scares the American people into believing that the government is using the military against them.”
“We’ll deal with that if and when we have to,” the president said. “But we’ll expose the former president’s untruths in the daily press briefings—the more he fabricates the facts, the faster he’ll marginalize himself.”
Joint Air Base Battle Mountain
That same time
Patrick McLanahan was driving by the parking lot outside the hangar being used by the FBI, and he saw Special Agent Chastain getting out of his car. He stopped and got out of the car, which immediately attracted Chastain’s attention. “I’m very sorry about your men, Agent Chastain,” Patrick said. “Agent Savoy was extremely brave for going on that mission.”
“He was doing his job,” Chastain said flatly. He stepped toward Patrick, looking at him carefully. “I’m sure you know already,” he said, “but the U.S. attorney has decided not to charge you.”
“Yes, I heard.”
“But I still don’t get you, General,” Chastain said. “I spoke with the Pentagon. They say you are retired, period. You still have a security clearance, but it’s ‘confidential’ only, like most retired flag-rank officers. You are permitted virtual unfettered access to the base, not because you have any official duties but because of your rank and because you were once the commander here. Along with your retiree benefits you receive temporary base housing in lieu of cost-of-living adjustments and not because you’re part of the staff. Yet you keep on telling me and everyone that you work for the Space Defense Force as some sort of liaison or facility manager.”
Patrick shrugged. “I guess I feel deep down that I do have a role here,” he said. “Frankly, being retired is the pits. I don’t recommend it. It’s a way I can keep involved with the Air Force and space operations, and at the same time I have time to spend with my son.”
“Like the Civil Air Patrol thing,” Chastain said.
“Exactly,” Patrick said. “I get to fly, contribute my skills, and wear a green bag, just like the old days. I’m with a great bunch of locals and we like to tell stories and teach the cadets about the military and service to the community and the country.” Chastain just nodded—Patrick thought he was just plain uninterested. “Again, I’m sorry about your men.” They shook hands, and Patrick drove off.
Inside the hangar, Chastain found Brady and Renaldo around the Sparrowhawk control table, going over the video they recorded from the reconnaissance flights, along with photos of the compound obtained by agents using telescopic high-resolution digital cameras. “What do you have?” he asked.
“The Knights are really getting cocky, the sons of bitches,” Brady said. “They’re out in the open, still celebrating, still going in front of the media telling the world how evil the FBI and U.S. military are, setting up defenses, and doing target practice with automatic weapons. They must have a shitload of weapons and ammo out there, because dozens of them have been doing target practice for hours, with a whole range of weapons. We’re identifying about a half-dozen new residents an hour.” He looked at Chastain’s distracted expression. “What’s up?”
“I just spoke with McLanahan.”
“You did?” Cassandra Renaldo asked. “You mean he actually talked to you?”
“Condolences for Savoy and Eberle,” Chastain said, “but he was unusually chatty after that. I told him that I checked him out and found out he’s really not the manager of anything around here, and he didn’t seem to care. He seemed to be . . . feeling pretty relaxed, considering the shit that happened here last night.”
“That’s weird,” Brady said. He nodded toward the images on the laptop screens. “Kinda like these jerk-offs here, celebrating the fact that they killed five fellow Americans, shot down three aircraft, and are flaunting their illegal automatic weapons in front of federal and state authorities.”
Chastain looked at the pictures, and his eyes flared. “Are you putting together files on these people?”
; “Of course.”
“How many of them belong to the Civil Air Patrol?” Chastain asked.
“I haven’t drilled down to nonpolitical affiliations yet,” Brady said. “The support staff is doing basic background, aliases, employment, criminal history, and military experience on about a hundred and forty individuals and counting.”
“Start looking into Civil Air Patrol membership,” Chastain said. “I had a bad feeling about McLanahan the moment he refused to talk, but I couldn’t figure out why a guy like him would be involved with domestic terrorists. The Civil Air Patrol could be the common thread. A lot of ex-military, a lot of patriotic wave-the-flag rhetoric, a lot of old guys wearing military-style uniforms . . .”
“I’m on it,” Brady said excitedly.
“I’m still not so sure,” Renaldo chimed in. “I don’t get that feeling about him. Now, a couple of the guys I’ve interviewed in this CAP unit like Fitzgerald, Slotnick, and de Carteret, yes, they could be extremists; McLanahan, no.”
“I want to keep searching,” Chastain said. “My radar is buzzing, and it’s still aimed right at McLanahan and now this Civil Air Patrol unit. What about the son?”
“He’s ready to pop—literally, if I do say so myself—any day now,” Renaldo said with a smile. Brady gave her a leer and a wink. “He’ll call me soon, don’t worry.”
Seven
The strongest of all warriors are these two—Time and Patience.
—Leo Tolstoy
North Peak, West of Battle Mountain
The next morning
“Remember, you’re not looking for anything in particular, Brad,” John de Carteret said. He was in the right front seat of the Civil Air Patrol Cessna 182 as mission observer, with Brad McLanahan in the left rear seat as mission-scanner trainee and his father, Patrick, as mission pilot. “Camps are probably the hardest to find, especially from one thousand feet above ground.”
“It all looks the same,” Brad said. He was using scan techniques, shifting his vision and locking briefly on a spot before shifting and relocking again, and scanning from top to bottom out to the sight line, but it didn’t seem to help. To make matters worse, his stomach wasn’t feeling quite right. “I mean, it’s like I see everything and nothing at the same time.”
“The best thing to look for when looking for camps is how the campers get to the site, not necessarily the site itself,” John said. “Tire tracks, new trails, disturbed ground, open gates, broken fences—those are easier to see from the air.” Brad shifted his attention to those things, but there didn’t seem to be anything like them anywhere.
“Need to take a break, Brad?” Patrick asked. “I can reverse the turn and contour-search the mountain from the other direction to let John do some scanning.” They had been assigned to search North Peak, west-northwest of Battle Mountain, for signs of a missile launch site—the FBI investigators definitely discovered that the first Sparrowhawk had been hit by a Stinger-like missile. Because this was an Air Force–assigned mission, Brad was getting his first of two required actual missions before being able to move up to mission observer. A ground team, led by Michael Fitzgerald with Ron Spivey as the cadet leader, was in the area below searching as well.
“No, I’m good, Dad,” although his stomach sure wasn’t liking these orbits around the mountain. A contour search started a thousand feet above the highest point of a peak, then two left-turn orbits. Then they would descend five hundred feet and do two more orbits, staying about a half mile away from the mountain’s face. After that, they would descend another five hundred feet and do it again.
Working around mountains and ridges always meant turbulence and squirrelly winds, especially in summer, and each bump didn’t help Brad’s stomach. Now he wished he’d eaten something before this mission, and wished he brought a barf bag—the only container he could see within reach was his brand-new flight-gear bag and the case for the digital camera, and he didn’t want to throw up in either one.
“I’m really glad Colonel Spara let us fly together, Brad,” Patrick said.
“Me too,” Brad said uneasily. He took a sip of water, but it didn’t help his stomach much.
“I think it’s because there’s a whole lot less guys hanging around the squadron these days, after the attack on the FBI guys,” John said. “It’s getting harder every day to put a crew together. Leo is busier than ever with the Highway Patrol. I think there’s just one other pilot I’ve seen around, other than Rob and you.”
Just as they were circling the northeast side of North Peak, Brad saw it—two black circles, one small, like a campfire area, and the other much larger. “Dad, I think I see something, nine o’clock.”
“Pick out things around it that will help steer your eyes back to it,” Patrick said. “What do you see?”
“A couple black spots on the ground, right beside a trail,” Brad said. He had to look farther down and back to keep it in sight, and that was even more disorientating.
Patrick scanned out his window, but he knew he couldn’t get too distracted from flying the plane. “I didn’t see it,” he said. “I don’t have enough room to keep turning left, but I’ll loop around to the right and bring you right back to it on the same heading. Coming right.” He made a right turn away from the mountain, perhaps a bit more sharply than he intended . . .
. . . but Brad wasn’t ready for it, and when Patrick turned, Brad couldn’t stop it—he put his head between his legs, pulled the headset microphone away from his lips just in time, and threw up on the floor of the Cessna.
“Brad!” Patrick exclaimed, rolling wings level. “Are you all right?” His question was answered with another heave. “Brad?”
“I’m . . . I’m okay.” But he followed that announcement with a third heave.
Patrick and John pulled their overhead vents open all the way to let in as much fresh air as they could, but it was no use—the smell wafted up to the cockpit, and now it was everywhere, impossible to ignore. Patrick looked over at John, who was already starting to turn a little pale. “John . . . ?”
“I think I’m done for a while too, Patrick,” he said uneasily.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Brad said. “I should’ve eaten something. It’s all the turning, and looking sideways and downward, and the turbulence . . .”
“Don’t worry, Brad,” Patrick said. “Either it’s happened to every pilot, or it soon will. We’re heading back to base.” John radioed Rob Spara at the squadron to report that they were exiting the search grid and gave them their ETA back to base.
As they were approaching the traffic pattern, John looked and saw a group of about ten cars on either side of the road to the base. “What’s going on down there?” he asked.
Patrick looked himself. Two lines of individuals carrying signs were walking down the road toward the main entrance to the base. “Why, they look like protesters!” he exclaimed. “Looks like they’re going to demonstrate outside the base!”
“I hope they stay outside,” John said. There was really no outer gate to Joint Air Base Battle Mountain, just a light chain-link fence designed to keep out tumbleweeds, and a cattle guard on the road to keep out stray farm animals on the nearby open ranges. All of the base security was electronic, using laser, infrared, and millimeter-wave sensors for all-weather precision scanning, with responses made by unmanned and then manned vehicles. “I haven’t seen a protest march since the Vietnam years.”
Patrick made the landing, brought the plane back to the hangar, then helped clean out the back. Afterward, they checked in with Rob Spara and described what they saw, including the protesters outside the main gate. “Yeah, they warned us about that,” Rob said. “Base security said if it gets bigger they might have to escort folks in and out.” He turned to Brad. “You feel okay, Brad?”
“I’m much better,” Brad replied. He had a packet of cheese and peanut-butter crackers and a ginger ale. “I just needed to eat something. I didn’t really have breakfast. I was too excited.” He turned to
Patrick. “Sorry for messing up the plane, Dad,” he repeated.
“Don’t be. It’s okay. Feel like giving it another try?”
“Yes!”
“Sure you want to push it, Brad?” Rob asked. “It’s not going to get any less bumpy out there.”
“I still want to go,” Brad said.
Rob looked at Brad carefully, then glanced at Patrick. But Patrick just put a hand on Brad’s shoulder. “He’s an adult and a senior member now, Rob,” he said with a smile. “He can make his own decisions.”
Rob hesitated. “I’d say airsickness is an ‘illness’ in the ‘IMSAFE’ checkoff that would ground you, Brad,” he said. “But I have a ground team in the field and no other crews to fly the 182.” He turned to John. “You feeling okay, John?”
“Yeah,” he replied. He too was munching on crackers and washing them down with ginger ale, both believed to be good nondrug remedies for airsickness. “I got a little green around the gills when the smell first hit, but I’m good now.”
Rob thought about it a little more, but he finally nodded. “Okay, guys,” he said, punching flight-release information into his computer. “You’re released. Make contact with the ground team and see if you steer them over to that sighting you made.” After Patrick got a bite to eat himself—with a bottle of ginger ale too, just in case—they refueled the plane, preflighted, loaded up, and were off.
But it was soon obvious that Brad’s stomach was not going to cooperate. They were on the downwind leg of the departure, still in the climb and not yet at pattern altitude, in smooth air, when Brad said, “I don’t feel so good again, Dad.”
Both air vents were already wide open. Patrick leveled off at about five hundred feet aboveground and reduced airspeed to smooth out the ride. “Try looking out the front window instead of the side window for a while, Brad,” John suggested.
